Chapter 4

In spite of Saidi’s strong objections to leaving the broad highway, Fara turned off at the unmistakable spot where an improvised road, fully fifty yards wide, led northward through a stubble-field. The tilled ground had been trampled soft and the going was slow.

The deserted trail moved on across the field, across another less travelled highway, through another harvested field, over a bridge that spanned a little stream. It curved to miss a grove of cypress, climbed a hill, traversed a pasture, forded a creek, and went on—and on. After five miles of monotonous riding, Fara sighted a village. At the cross-roads a stone said the place was Tekoa. The trail had bypassed the little town, but Fara rode into it. Perhaps someone could inform her how far she must go to find the prophet.

The village was quite abandoned. The small bazaars and markets on the principal street were closed. Further on, in the residential section, a frail old woman bent over the ledge of a community well, tugging at the handle of the windlass. Fara drew up alongside, dismounted, and lent a hand. The dripping chain brought up a large wooden bucket which they pulled to anchorage on top of the low wall. The ragged old woman, breathing heavily, gave Fara a toothless smile and offered a rusty iron dipper.

‘It is good!’ said Fara. She filled the dipper for her hostess, emptied the bucket into the stone trough beside the well, and slipped off the filly’s bridle. ‘Saidi is thirsty too,’ she added, lowering the bucket again.

‘Never knew of a horse named Saidi,’ remarked the old woman. ‘Where do you come from, young master?’

‘Arabia.’

‘But you are an Israelite, I think.’

‘No—we are both Arabians, Saidi and I.’

The old woman tightened her shrunken lips and scowled.

‘How do you happen to ask a drink of me?’ she demanded crossly.

‘Because you seemed friendly; and, besides, I was thirsty,’ replied Fara, unruffled by the woman’s surliness. ‘I shall gladly pay you for the water.’

‘We don’t sell water.’

‘Here is a little gift, then.’ Fara offered her a shekel.

The beady old eyes brightened at the sight of so much money, but the white head shook vigorously. Fara laid the shekel on the ledge of the well. The old woman turned and spat unprettily on the ground.

Suppressing her amusement, Fara said, ‘I am looking for a Jewish prophet. His name is John. Many people are following him, and I wish to hear him. I think he has passed this way. Do you know where he has gone?’

‘He is a son of Satan!’ shrilled the old woman. ‘A blasphemer! Cursed be all the infidels who listen to his revilings of Israel!’

Fara, who had been toying with her coin-pouch, unwound its thong and asked quietly, ‘Do you know where he is?’

For a moment the old woman maintained a sullen silence while Fara poured a few silver coins into her own palm. Pouring them back into the pouch, she vaulted into the saddle and gathered up the bridle-reins. The wrinkled old jaw was quivering. Obviously her poverty and her piety were in combat. Impetuously she pointed toward the north-east.

‘They said he was heading for the river,’ she shouted, ‘and all Judaea is following him! Everybody in Tekoa has joined the infidels!’ Tears ran down the leathery cheeks. ‘My own son—and my daughter and her husband—and their children—they too have gone mad, like the others.’

Honestly sorry for the pitiable old creature, who was now weeping aloud, Fara asked quietly, ‘But what has this man been saying—to distress you so?’

‘He scorns our ancient faith!’ sobbed the old woman, scrubbing her cavernous eyes with the skirt of her faded apron. ‘He sits out there in the desert for years, doing no work, helping nobody, never attending the Synagogue, never bringing a gift to the altar; and now he comes forth railing at the religion of his fathers!’

‘He has a new religion then?’ asked Fara.

‘An angel is about to appear, he says, who will show us what to do—as if we were heathen who knew no God.’

‘Your priests are probably annoyed by such talk,’ surmised Fara.

‘Annoyed!’ The old woman slowly nodded her head and drew an unpleasant grin. ‘You wait! They will soon silence his blasphemies! God is not mocked!’

Fara opened her pouch and poured silver into the wrinkled hand. The old woman clutched the money, scowled, and made an unsuccessful effort to spit. Saidi, who had been pawing the ground impatiently, was pleased to be on their way at a brisk trot.

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